


You Sound Just Like A Song

by Damalia (Achrya)



Series: Jean and his Otherworldly Boyfriends [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Come Marking, Dark Marco Bott, Dom/sub, Language, M/M, Multi, Sexual Content, Threesome - M/M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-26 21:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6256564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achrya/pseuds/Damalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean has had imaginary friends since he was kid, the figurative angel and devil on his shoulders given form, and after a few formative summers (and some therapy) he left all that behind (okay, so he can't hold down a relationship and is having a small sexuality crisis but it's college, that's normal.) It wasn't real after all. Angels and demons didn't exist and if they did what interest would they have in him anyway? He isn't anyone special. </p><p>Or: An angel and a demon decide to move into Jean's apartment while blithely informing him that they basically own his ass now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Somebody That I Used to Know

**Author's Note:**

> This starts kinda innocent (I might have a different view of innocent than other people.) but I promise you filth eventually. Also fluff and (attempts) at humor and so much awkward.

Jean had imaginary friends. Just two of them, as if that made it better, and he knew it was strange considering his age but that didn’t change that he had them. They’d been at his side for years now, on and off, and he was never really sure if they were real or not. Years of therapy and his mother’s worry hadn’t helped much on that front.

It had started when he was eight. His parents had been getting divorced so his mom shipped him off to stay with his grandparents for the summer, which meant staying on their farm in the middle of nowhere with no one to play with for miles and miles.

He’d made his own fun, playing in the loft of the barn, climbing trees, playing with the animals, and exploring the fields and patches of trees all around. It was one of his ventures into the woods that brought them to his life. He’d been standing at the foot of a tree so tall he got a little dizzy staring up at it when another boy had sort of...popped out of nowhere.

He’d been a little shorter than Jean with freckles sprinkled over a round nose, curly dark brown hair, eyes a deep warm brown, and a gap-toothed smile. Jean remembered thinking that the boy was dressed strangely, no shirt with a simple brown skirt-thing, and sandals that laced up over his legs.

Also he’d had wings which was, even by an eight year olds standards, pretty damn strange. Four of them, two on each side, small things covered in that looked more like puffy golden clouds than actual feathers, resting against his back and peeking over his shoulders.

As weird as it was, and it was, Jean had just been happy to see another person who wasn’t his gran or gramps. The boy had said his name was Marco and then held out a hand for Jean to take. He knew all about stranger danger and that going places with people, even kids his own age, could be dangerous but there was something warm and friendly about Marco that he’d wanted to be closer to.

Jean could still remember the electric shock he’d felt when he’d taken Marco’s hand and the way those downy wings had fluttered before another smile, brighter than the sun, and that in that moment he’d been hooked.

Not that he’d known it at that time but not knowing hadn’t made it any less true.

They’d played together in the warm summer sun, games Jean couldn’t remember so many years later, until the sky had gone orange and purple. He remembered the way the fireflies had just been starting to come out, twinkling around them, and the crickets’ song had started filling the air; Marco had taken him by the hand again and lead him back to the farm so he’d be home before dark.

Some of it was probably nostalgia, the way things always seemed much too perfect when you looked back on them, like a hazy dream you’d never catch again.

Marco had left him by the barn, promising to meet him again the next day, and Jean had run inside to tell his grandparents everything. They’d laughed and smiled at him in the way indulgent adults did then had him eat and wash up before bed.

He remembered, very distinctly, walking into the room to find another boy sitting on his bed. He’d thought it was Marco at first, the face was the same, but the eyes had been tinged with red, the hair black and pin straight, and when he’d smiled at Jean it was with sharp teeth.

Horns peeked out of his hair, tiny, black, and covered in wispy fur, and a long thin tail trailed over the side of Jean’s bed.

He’d reached for Jean and, even though he’d been confused and a little afraid because of the teeth, he’d taken the boy’s hand. He’d felt a warm prickling heat race up his arm and the boy had laughed quietly before telling Jean they should go outside.

It was dark and most importantly past his bedtime. He wasn’t allowed out when it was dark and if his grandparents found out he’d be in trouble but the boy had tugged and spoke about chasing fireflies and seeing the woods at night with such bright eyes.

They’d crept out, holding their breaths when they went past his grandparent’s room and out the back door, and, once far enough away, run laughing through the grass.

He’d come back just as the sun was coming back out in the morning, feet caked with mud and pajamas torn, and slept until lunch time.

And that was how his summer had gone. Playing with Marco under the bright sun and sneaking out with the boy who had no name (Jean had asked and just gotten a confused blink in return.) at night then sleeping until it was time to do it all again.

He spoke to his grandparents and mother, during her frequent calls, about his new friends often (though he never mentioned that he went out in the dark) and they smiled about Marco, clucked about the no-name-boy with his sharp teeth and horns, and encouraged him to play. He realized later they thought his friends were make believe, something dreamed up by a bored child’s mind.

He left the farmhouse a week before school started and didn’t see his friends again until the next summer. This time he requested to spend the time with his grandparents, eager to pick up where they’d left off.

For years that was just how things were. Alone during the school year, he wasn’t great at making ‘real’ friends, maybe because he compared them to the boys from the farmhouse or maybe because he was angry and short tempered and spent most of his time wondering why his father never kept his promises, and with his best friends during the summer.

By the time he was thirteen his mother started to worry because imaginary friends were something you grew out of but his just seemed to become more and more every year. He’d picked up an interest in art and when he came home that year he had books full of pictures of Marco and the No-Name-Boy. They were different than they’d been when he was 8. Both were taller than him for starters. Marco’s wings had lost most of the soft fluff and gained sleek golden feathers in their place and he was starting to lose most of the baby fat in his stomach and arms. No-name’s horns were thicker and longer, sweeping back and starting to curl like a rams, and his tail touched the floor.

They’d both posed for his sketches, Marco while blushing nervously and saying he didn’t understand why Jean was interested and No-name with laughter and raised eyebrows.

His mother had frowned over the pictures of a shirtless Marco and frowned even harder at No-name’s sharp toothed and smirking visage, and plopped him right into therapy. It made for an especially miserable school year; he’d wanted to join art club but instead he was in a cramped office every Monday and Thursday talking to a man who asked him questions about his father, the divorce, angels, demons, girls and boys in his class, and the way he’d drawn his imaginary friends.

He went back to his grandparents, unsure about his own mental state, and found Marco and No-name waiting for him but it was different. He was aware of them like he hadn’t been before. Found himself staring at Marco’s back and the way freckles danced along his sun darkened skin, noticing the way No-name’s arms flexed with he hauled himself up into trees then reached down to pull Jean up with him.

Jean was thin and gangly, had shot up another four inches out of nowhere that spring and could barely keep himself from falling over like a newborn calf but they seemed to already be muscle and grace and not a hint of awkwardness.

No-name kissed him one night out under the July stars to a soundtrack of cicadas and owls. They’d been by the river that snaked through the woods behind the farmhouse. There were ruins of a watermill there, large heavy stones and a large wooden wheel off to the side, grown over with grass and flowers that Marco tended to during the day like it was a garden. At night he sat on the stones with No-name and let his toes dangle over the cool water.

There hadn’t been anything special about that night until No-name had leaned over and kissed him. In hindsight it hadn’t been all that great, chapped lips mashed so hard against his own that it had hurt, bumping foreheads and rubbing noses, but in the moment it had been a revelation. They’d tried it again and again and again, got a little better at it each time. He remembered a burning tingle in his lips that had lingered well into the next day and a mouth that tasted like smoke.

Kissing Marco had gone a little smoother, since he’d had a little experience on his side. They’d been in a tree, a basket of strawberries balanced on Marco’s knees, and his lips had been soft and slick with fruit juice, sweet and bright when he’d cautiously licked over them. The euphoria of the moment had lasted long enough to exchange more kisses between pleased laughter and then he’d drawn back, red faced and ashamed.

He’d halting explained about No-name and Marco had listened with a thoughtful expression before nodding. They’d stayed in the tree, ate the berries, but that was all.

The night when he snuck out he’d confessed to No-name. He’d been graced with a wry smile and been given permission to do as he pleased.

“It’s only fair,” The horned boy has said while tugging him closer. “That we keep sharing you, right?”

That summer ended up being a whole cheesy sexual awakening sort of thing, escalating from awkward giggling kisses to sloppy make outs to grinding to watching red-faced as they touched themselves to handjobs and blowjobs that were equally awkward and sloppy. He left the farm pretty secure in the knowledge that he was really gay and eager to return once the school year let out.

It didn’t happen that way. One misplaced sketchbook full of the sort of pictures no boy wants their mother to see later, of Marco and No-name and dicks and...it was a lot of porn.

A lot.

Maybe if it hadn’t been pictures of the same imaginary friends she was already worried about him holding onto for too long or borderline blasphemous or so...graphic it might not have been a problem. But it was all of those things so he’d been plopped back into therapy, his mother more worried than ever.

It wasn’t the ‘Gay Thing’ she’d insisted (though when she said it like that he was pretty skeptical) it was how withdrawn he was from other kids, his lack of ‘real’ friends, and how it just wasn’t normal to not just have these imaginary friends but to have aged them up for...whatever purposes that she just didn’t want to talk about.

That summer was spent with his father, tucked away in a cramped highrise apartment in Mitras, and hating every minute of it. His dad mostly ignored him and when he didn’t he treated him like a puzzle or math problem he couldn’t quite grasp.

Marco and No-name didn’t show that summer or the next. He stopped talking about them, only drew them behind his locked bedroom door and eventually stopped doing it at all, and wondered if maybe everyone had been right to worry. When he was fourteen he would have sworn they were real but at seventeen he was sure it had been something borne of loneliness and an overactive imagination.

That’s what people told him anyway and he didn’t feel the need to argue. His grandfather died the spring he turned 17 and that summer he and his mother went to the farmhouse to help his gram get it cleaned and ready to be sold. Gram was moving to the city to live with them and already had buyers for the property.

He stuck close to the house for the first week, half afraid that if he ventured into the trees or fields he’d see them but also terrified that he wouldn’t.

In the end he didn’t need to go that far. He found them in the loft of the barn on night when he just needed to be outside and away from the sad suffocating atmosphere in the house. He climbed up, thinking to sleep on the hay like he had when he was younger, and found them both sitting there, waiting like it hadn’t been years.

The two weeks after that passed in a blur of cleaning, tending the fields, grooming the animals and watching them be sold off one by one by day, and lying in sweet smelling hay with an angel on one side and a demon on the other at night. They were less clumsy now, better at drawing things out and reducing Jean to panting breathes and a limp nerveless body. It wasn’t exactly the three of them together; one would watch or perhaps sit behind him, touching his hair and whispering into his ear, while the other had their way with him. They didn’t say much to each other, didn’t touch if they could avoid it, barely looked at each other.

He wasn’t sure what to make of it but two weeks wasn’t really enough time to figure himself out let alone the two of them. Better to just close his eyes and enjoy it because he knew that real or not this he wouldn’t be returning. He told them as much and they just stared back flatly in a way that let him know they already knew.

“One of us could go with you.” Marco had pressed the words against his inner thigh, fingers doing something that made Jean see sparks. “If you choose.”

“The other would have to stay.” No-name’s voice drifted over from where he was lounging on a hay bale, russet eyes dark, pupils blown wide, as he watched them.

Jean arched then rocked down and had just enough sense left to shake his head. “I couldn’t.”

He remembered Marco’s head popping up and the soft sad smile the angel had worn before kissing him firmly.

When he left the farm it was without either of them.

Junior and Senior year came and went. College followed. Dorms and classes and a boyfriend he never really got anywhere with because it never felt quite right (there was no electricity when they touched and no fire against his lips when they kissed.) He smoked because the taste reminded him of something else and when he left the dorms he got a place with a little (tiny, really) green space in the back to keep a teeny garden. He worked and went to class and had some friends and when he broke up with his boyfriend he let them set him up on dates.

It wasn’t a bad life by any means and, with over five years between himself and the farm, things got hazy and dreamlike. The sketchbooks went into storage, embarrassing reminders of coming to terms with his sexulaity via really vivid daydreams, and he spent a few distressingly long evenings wondering about the state of his virginity.

He was pretty sure that imaginary friends didn’t count as sexual experiences which meant he’d never actually gotten laid and it was all a very nebulous thing once he went down that path. He wasn’t sure why it mattered so much, because it didn’t, but maybe it did because it still felt real. He dreamed about sun drenched days on the river bank and stifling hot moonlit nights like they were memories.

He couldn’t date because he was hung up on something that couldn’t have possibly ever existed outside of his mind. Couldn’t even get laid because of it.

It was depressing. He'd tried dating a few girls, wondering if maybe that would get him somewhere because hey with everything else being kind of not real maybe he'd jumped that whole 'I'm hella gay' gun, but it all ended the same because nothing ever felt quite right. 

It was one of those long nights that lead to him falling asleep on his ratty worn out couch, covered by a quilt his grandmother had given him, and then being rudely awakened by a crash and something heavy falling on him.

He shrieked, pushing and thrashing against the thing on top of him. He felt something hard and unforgiving and almost hot to the touch under his hands as he flailed and heard grunts and curses which only made him that much more frantic. His fist caught something and there was a crack and something giving way under his skin. Someone hissed.

Someone was in his apartment, someone was in his apartment on top of him and how the fuck had they gotten in and why were they on him and what the actual fuck was-

The light came on. He froze then swiveled around to stare at where the switch was, heart racing jackrabbit fast. Someone else was here too?

Someone, he realized, with warm brown eyes and a sprinkling of freckles over his nose. An annoyed groan made him turn to look at the person more or less sitting on his legs. A single russet eye peered back at him, somehow sulky, past a bloody nose that was starting to swell up already. He sat up straight, drawing his legs back and up to his chest.

This was not happening.

Marco smiled and it was just as bright and heart stopping as Jean remembered or imagined or...something. “Hi Jean. We missed you.”

This was happening.

“Holy shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter:  
> "You have to have a name." Jean insisted. He wasn't sure why he was so hung up on it but he needed something 'normal' to focus on so it might as well be this.  
> The demon rolled his eyes. "I"m a demon. We don't have names."  
> Marco nodded. "It's true. We just call them 'Useless Hellspawn number 3,333' or something like that."  
> "Fuck you."  
> Marco sniffed. Jean pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd liked it better when they didn't talk to each other.  
> "I have to call you something. No-name or Darker Marco isn't going to work."  
> "Darker Marco? Rude." Marco muttered.  
> The demon yawned then shrugged. "I'd answer to 'Master.' It'll be good practice for you."  
> "Fuck's sake."


	2. Want You To Know Who I am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things you thought you knew, decided you didn't know after all, and then find out you knew all along.

Jean watched, wide eyed and open mouthed, as Marco did something to No-name’s face that involved a pulse of white light and resulted in the demon’s nose no longer being dangerously crooked, just slightly, or well on it’s way to being a bruised and swollen mess. Marco leaned a little closer to the other, humming as he stroked a fingertip along the now unblemished skin, then smiled slightly. No-name scowled then started wiping at his nose, using the end of his sleeve to clean away the blood that had leaked free.

This. This was impossible and not just the usual kind of ‘wow, didn’t see this coming’ but that it was actually literally impossible because they didn’t exist. They couldn’t exist. He’d spent more nights than he cared to admit and hours and hours in therapy coming to terms with that. He accepted that they were just the products of the overactive imagination of a kid who’d been lonely and horny and-

OH! Oh.

It was the farmhouse all over again wasn’t it? He was watching his friends date and pair off, suffering through talks with his mother every week about why he hadn’t found a nice someone-she never said girl but she’d never put forth any effort to meet the guy he’d dated for months and always had a new ‘accomplished young lady’ whose mothers and aunts she knew to tell him about-and he was getting no action.

He was lonely and horny and here they fucking were.

On that note his imagination was being incredibly kind to him because they were, somehow, even hotter than he remembered them being. It was a true testament to their impossibility that there wasn’t just one person who was so very his type but two of them.

Though it probably said something worrisome about him that horns, tails, and wings still seemed to be his thing. So very his thing, holy shit.

Their near identical faces were a little sharper, having lost all the roundness of youth since the last time he’d seen them, but there were still freckles over round noses, full lips, and dark eyes framed by long dark lashes.

Marco was deeply-tanned, like he’d lived his entire life under the sun, and his dark brown hair was long enough to be waves instead of curls, tucked behind delicately pointed ears, and touched with lighter sunkissed bits of brown. He was taller and broader, shoulders and chest distractingly wide and flowing to a narrow waist. There was a dusting of dark hair leading from his belly button to under the hem of the dark brown leather kilt he was wearing and Jean forced his attention back up before he could start thinking about what might have looked different, or the same, under the kilt.

Marco’s wings-

Wait.

“What happened to your wings?”

Where there had been four wings, a smaller set that sprouted from between the top of his shoulder blades and then a larger set that started just below and to the outside of the first and were long enough to trail the ground, only the top set remained. The feathers were layers of a pale gold mixed with some silvery whites and creams along the inside, and shifted around even though Marco was standing perfectly still.

Marco’s lips pursed and his eyes darted down to No-name. Who, Jean realized with a start, had been keeping one of his eyes shut tight the entire time. The other eye was the same strange russet color he remembered. His hair was longer, half hiding the closed eye, and fell messily around the horns that started just behind his hairline. They were bigger, glossy black and ridged all along the surface, sweeping back and curling down near his ears, then back up to end in rounded points. He was a little paler than Marco and less muscular and, thankfully, fully dressed.

“It was-” A sharp knock at the front door interrupted what Marco had been about to say. Everyone turned as one. Marco’s wings rustled, spread with a snap; Jean couldn’t help but notice that that they were huge, 8 or 9 feet from tip to tip. No-name rolled to his feet, back stiff with tension.

They exchanged another look; Jean got the feeling a lot was being said with just a slight head tilt and blink.

“Jean? You in there? We heard screaming and now Connie thinks you’re being murdered and wants to call the cops so I’m here to make sure you aren’t drowning in your own blood. ...you aren’t, right? You know I hate it when Connie’s right.”

He rolled his eyes heavenward. His place was an old brownstone that had been renovated and turned into two apartments, his on the bottom floor and theirs taking up the second and third floors. He and his upstairs neighbors shared an entrance way, the backyard, and a floor/ceiling that let through just a little bit more noise than he would have liked.

No-name’s lips curved downwards. “Who’s that?”

“Sasha. She and her boyfriend live upstairs.” Jean explained while dragging a hand through his hair. “They’re...friends.”

“Jean?” Sasha called out again. “Are you talking to someone else?”

Oh. Right. He was essentially talking to himself wasn’t he? Fantastic. Trying to explain why he’d started screaming in the middle of the night and was now whispering to himself was going to be fun. He cast one last look at his visitors then headed for the door.

On the upside being crazy enough to hallucinate things meant he didn’t have to worry about anyone else seeing said hallucinations, so at least he didn’t have to worry about hiding them somewhere.

If he’d had real guys in his apartment there was no way he’d let Connie and Sasha see them. That was just asking to be teased and pumped for ‘details’ (Not that there ever were any.)

There was another rap, a little heavier and more insistent than before, and there was a worried note to Sasha’s voice when she called his name again. He flipped the lock and took down the chain then opened the door, smiling at Sasha’s tired expression of relief. He looked past her to see Connie standing on the other side of the entrance way, standing on the stairs that lead up to their apartment, phone in hand and a finger poised just above the screen.

Connie lowered his phone and scowled. “Seriously Jean? We could hear you shrieking from upstairs.”

“Hey. Sorry that I woke you guys. I just-”

“You have company.” Sasha was craning her neck to be able to see into his place. He blinked then turned to look as well. The door had a clear line of sight to the living room and the kitchen area behind it.

Marco, in all his shirtless and winged glory, was leaning over the back of the couch and watching them with a curious expression on his face. When he noticed he had their attention he held up a hand and waved.

Sasha waved back, completely unbothered by the sight of a literal angel on Jean’s couch. Connie managed to get from the stairs to next to Sasha in what had to be record time, a mischievous smile on his lips.

“Are you finally getting laid?”

He felt the first stirrings of a headache, if stirrings could be code for ‘brain is screaming loudly and furiously as it demands an answer’ and could barely understand that he was being spoken to.

“What? You...you can’t...you aren’t supposed to see him.”

Jean wasn’t sure if this was an extension of his insanity, if somehow Sasha and Connie were also figments of his imagination (and how far down the rabbit hole would that train of thought take him, since they shared friends and went outside together) or...well no, that was about the only option there was beyond Marco and No-name (and where had the demon gone?) being real.

Which was impossible and also meant assuming Sasha and Connie were familiar with people randomly having wings and not thinking it was at all weird.

Which it was.

“Am I supposed to be hiding?” Marco frowned; the sheer amount of kicked puppy in his gaze was more than enough to make Jean feel like shit. For...hiding his fake friend from his real friends?

Sasha clucked at him, the picture of disappointment, then smiled over his shoulder at Marco. “It’s nice to meet you. Sorry to interrupt.” Then, voice dropping to a whisper. “He’s hot. I want to hear about everything. But maybe less screaming tonight if you don’t mind.”

He gaped at her as she turned around and, hooking her arm through Connie’s to drag him after her, beelined for the stairs. He watched until they were out of sight and, even after that, didn’t move until he heard their door shut and the faint shuffling of footsteps above him.

What the fuck?

How? What?

“They saw you.”

“Yes.” Marco agreed. “...You’re surprised?”

Was he surprised? That was sort of an understatement; he felt like he’d just had a rug pulled out from under him, fallen onto his ass, and then been told he was actually still on his feet. He shut the door and shuffled back to the couch, mind reeling. “How?”

“With their eyes would be my guess.” The angel’s smile as he shifted so he was leaning into Jean’s space, close enough that he could drape an arm around Jean’s shoulder, was a wan one. “That’s how most humans do it, isn’t it?”

“Were you a smartass before?” Jean snapped. His world was being rocked on its axis and Marco was trying to be funny? Did he not understand that other people weren’t supposed to see him? That Jean had spent the past almost five years thinking he had ‘issues’, bouncing in and out of therapy, and trying to deal with being too fucked up by childhood daydreams to have a functional adult relationship and that if people could see him, if he was real, then it meant all of that had been bullshit.

This shit wasn’t funny, it was the precursor to a serious nervous breakdown and he’d already been there and done that and wasn’t looking for a repeat. He didn’t want to end up back in a shrink’s office talking about his imaginary friends-who maybe weren’t imaginary and, it seemed, had just left him to feel like he was crazy- and crushed under the weight of his families’ worry and nervous looks.

“No one ever saw you before.” He said finally but, as soon as the words were out, he realized they’d never been in front of people before. Out in the woods, the fields, in the barn loft, even in his bedroom in the dark of night but never had they been in a position to be seen by his grandparents or mother.

How had he never realized that before?

How many times had he heard ‘why hasn’t anyone else seen them if they’re real’ and been unable to come up with an explanation before he’d just come to accept that he was wrong. He’d done such a good job of moving on and doing all the ‘normal’ person stuff and now this? Something as obvious as ‘they’ve never been where anyone else could see them’ was going to be what brought it down?

“They couldn’t...your wings?”

Marco shrugged, looking utterly bored with the conversation. “Humans see what they think they should see. If they don’t think I should have wings I don’t.”

That didn’t even make sense! Jean could see the wings (and all the other shit) just fine and he sure as fuck knew they shouldn’t be there!

He didn’t need cryptic bullshit answers, he needed-

Wait.

“Where’s...uh. The other one? What’s his name?” Suddenly calling him ‘No-name’ and thinking him as ‘Demon Marco’ and ‘Darker Marco’ in his head didn’t seem to cut it. That was fine for someone who was just a daydream but something else was going on now and he just...needed things to make sense.

A name was a good place to start wasn’t it? A small thing but it was a start.

Marco tilted his head to the side as his fingers trailed over the bare skin of Jean’s arm lightly. It was like static electricity, but so much nicer, sparking under his skin wherever his fingertips touched. It was familiar and yet more than he remembered; his heart stuttered.

“Name? The demon?”Marco’s lips curved upwards slightly as he slid even closer so his chin was practically resting on Jean’s shoulder. “That’s funny.”

Was it?

“I don’t have one.” No-name stepped back into the room from the hallway that lead to the bedrooms and bathroom. His shirt was gone, exposing thick black lines crawling over his skin to form strange looping symbols that looked like they might have been letters for some other language. His face was free of blood and his hair was damp in the front.

His jeans were open in the front and pushed dangerously low; another half inch and there wouldn’t really be anything left to the imagination. His tail swayed behind him, the rounded spade shape at the tip hovering just above the floor. He headed right for the couch and hopped over the side to wedge himself in the small space between Jean and the arm of the couch then grinned toothily.

He felt heat, fire, where the demon’s bare skin touched his own.

Jean looked between the two of them, shirtless and pressed up against him on both sides (and shooting each other dirty looks over his head), then shook his head. He’d been in the position before. He knew where this went.

He stood up, brushing Marco’s hand away and disregarding their annoyed looks and put a few feet of space between himself and the couch. He needed to stay away from them, keep his head and try to figure all of this out, one bit at a time.

“What do you mean you don’t have a name?”

Marco sighed loudly then levered himself up and over to sit next to the demon. “He means he doesn’t have one. Why does it matter to you now?”

"You have to have a name." Jean insisted. Names were normal and he needed this to be normal on at least some level if he was going to be able to handle it. “Everyone has a name.”

The demon rolled his eyes. "I’m a demon. We don't have names."

Marco nodded. "It's true. We just call them 'Useless Hellspawn number 3,333' or something like that."

"Fuck you."

Marco sniffed disdainfully. “I’d rather not.”

“I thought lying was against Godly Squad policy.” No-name’s expression was all innocent curiosity. “Doesn’t shit like that get you kicked out? Oh, wait.”

"I have to call you something, don’t I? No-name or Darker Marco isn't going to work." Jean said trying to steer the conversation away from pointless back and forth. “Unless you like...I don’t know, Darco?”

Both looked aghast at the suggestion.

"Darco? Did you just make that up?" Marco muttered. “Are you saying I look like a demon? That’s mean.”

No-name sneered. “You should be so lucky.”

Marco’s wings rustled in what could only be irritation. “Why don’t you-”

“Please.” Jean pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd liked it better when they didn't talk to each other at all.

The demon yawned then shrugged. "I'd answer to 'Master.' It'll be good practice since you belong to us."

"Fuck's sake." He muttered. He wanted to say hearing the demon talk like that was surprising but he remembered No-name always being a little possessive and demanding, happy to leave scratches and hickies for Marco to frown over the next day.

So, instead, he shook he head and rubbed at the bridge of his nose again. “Fine, whatever, I don’t care. I just...I can’t do this. This isn’t happening.”

It couldn’t be.

Maybe he was asleep? That seemed reasonable, didn’t it? Just some sort of strange dream. He was going to wake up in the morning and this will have gone away. Sasha and Connie hadn’t really been here at all and…

Something.

Marco’s frowned at him. “Is something wrong? Are you not...do you not want us here?”

This time there was nothing put on about the upset expression on his face and if Jean had thought the puppy dog eyes made him feel bad then the way Marco’s wings actually drooped was like a punch to the chest.

Fuck.

“Hey, I...look. I don’t understand how this is happening.” He said finally, cringing at how his voice shook and cracked. “I’ve spent years with everyone telling me I was delusional because I made you both up but thought you were real and now you’re here, waving at my fucking neighbors. You have wings and horns and a tail and people don’t have those things but Sasha and Connie acted like they couldn’t see Marco’s wings-”  

“They probably couldn’t.” No-name said, glancing towards the front door. “Humans are  strange creatures. It’s amazing they don’t get eaten more often.”

“Eaten? What does that...Where are your other wings?! And what’s wrong with your eye?!” He was shouting. He didn’t mean to be shouting but he could feel panic pushing its way out from inside of him, leaving a cool tingling numbness in it’s wake. “How can you be here like this?”

Silence reigned for a moment and then Marco was up and coming towards him, hands up in the way a person would when approaching a scared animal. Jean swallowed nervously but didn’t try to move away. First arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a hug, and then wings curled around him. They were soft and silky where they touched him, stroked at the memory of sweet hay and feeling warm and safe. In spite of his memory of them being the smaller set, they were big enough to press against him from shoulder to foot. 

“We missed you Jean.”

His knees felt weak, like keeping him up was too much for them to manage, and his eyes were burning and he couldn’t do this.

He remembered them being careful and sweet and loving, the only people who’d wanted to be with him day after day while his parents were busy splitting up, the only people who’d wanted to be his friends then, who’d cared about him and wanted to be with him and then they’d just been gone. He’d thought, at first, it was because they couldn’t leave the farm and then because it wasn’t real but they were _here_ and it felt _real_ so why?

He pressed his face into the side of Marco’s neck and breathed in sunshine, grass, and flowers. “Where were you?”

Had he done something wrong?

“There are rules.” No-name said. Jean brought his gaze up enough to look at the demon; he was still on the couch, arms crossed over his chest and looking decidedly uncomfortable. “We had to give something up to be here.”

Jean stiffened. “What?”

No-name’s eye cracked open part way; it wasn’t much but it was...more than enough, really. There was nothing there; not a wounded eye or an empty socket but nothing at all. Deep black endless nothing, like looking up into the starless night sky.

Jean felt cold all over. “Oh.”


	3. Baby, Just Say Pretty Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean gives up on being reasonable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please to be noting the increase in rating/new warnings.

There was something about being told that your imaginary-surprise not imaginary friends and sort of lovers (But not actually sort of, was it?) had been hurt and lost an eye and a set of wings respectively that sort of drained a person.

Or, at least, Jean had felt drained and sick and confused and like he couldn’t begin to grasp or understand what was going on anymore. He’d been dropped into a dream, or a nightmare, Between No-name’s strange black hole of an eye and Marco’s back-

God, Marco’s back. No-names missing eye was bad, yeah, but it was neat and tidy, no signs of how it had happened left behind, but Marco? The places where his wings had been before were raw and red and...mangled, for lack of a better term. Twin long wounds slashed across the skin between his shoulder blades, uneven and jagged edges that didn’t really meet up properly held together by dark thick sutures. 

He stared at it, swallowing the urge to reach out and touch the wounds, as if that would make them more real. He could see the muscle under Marco’s skin twitching in a way that made him think the angel’s body hadn’t caught up to the reality of the situation.

Something about the sight of Marco seemingly unconsciously trying to move what was no longer there, combined with the jarring memory of the endless blackness of No-names’ eye, had made his stomach drop painfully as a sour taste rose up in the back of his throat. Instead of reaching out to touch Marco he’d ducked around the angel and ran for the bathroom to empty the contents of his stomach. 

It wasn’t that No-name’s lack of an eye or Marco’s back were even all that gruesome, Jean had seen grosser shit watching horror movies with Sasha and Connie, and it was stupid puke over what amounted to a shadowy nothing, some stitches, and red skin and yet he was absolutely sick to his stomach and his eyes were blurry and burning. 

_ “We had to give something up to be here.”  _

It echoed in his head, became a dull painful pulse behind his eyes, and the way his vision swam made the bubbling feeling in the pit of his stomach that much worse. He’d coughed and gagged but having had nothing but beer and popcorn since lunch meant there was nothing else to throw up. 

Still dry heaving wasn’t exactly pleasant and it didn’t mean the painful twisting in his stomach or the fiery burn in his throat hurt any less. 

They were hurt because of him. That’s what the demon was saying, they’d had to lose those parts of themselves to get back to him? Why would they do that, he wasn’t worth- It didn’t make sense. 

Was this his fault? Was it because he’d left them? Tried to forget about them and convinced himself they weren't real? Should he had gone back to the farm or...done something differently?

He couldn’t...it was too much. Too fucking much. 

Footsteps had following him and urgent whispering that wasn’t quite loud enough to become actual words through the pounding in his head. Someone had touched him, spoken to him, but it felt like he wasn’t really there in his body and nothing meant anything.  

He hadn’t had a panic attack in a while and he could recognize it for what it was but he felt small and powerless as it sunk it’s hooks into him. He couldn’t do anything to stop it, couldn’t pull it together to breathe like he was supposed to or focus on anything except the questions swirling around in his brain. 

He didn’t know who picked him up off the floor and carried him back to his bed, whose lap his head was pillowed in and who rubbed his back and crooned to him. He thought he might have tried to get away, didn’t want to be touched like this, they were too close everything was too close he was suffocating...but maybe he didn’t because in the end he just ended up between them anyway.

A strained calm came and sleep, somehow, followed it. He would have thought he’d be up all night, worried and stressed out and far too confused to fall asleep but in the end he was too drained and worn out to fight against the wave of weariness that dragged him down. 

He tumbled into a memory about being in the loft. Stripped of his clothes, on his side with Marco curled around his back, silken feathers drifting over his skin, and No-name pressed firmly against his front, tail wrapped around his thigh, the tip occasionally tapping against him. He was dozing, swimming just above the edge of real sleep, lulled by the warmth enveloping him, the hands petting him, and soft words spoken over his head. 

This was the one place where he fit, where he was safe and cared for and it was okay to let himself believe in things that weren’t real.

“You shouldn’t have done that. It was...he’s different.” 

“Time has that effect.” 

Lips touched the top of his head and someone inhale before words were spoken into his hair. “I didn’t think he’d be so different. So...fragile? We should have been more careful.”

A snort. “How would you have done it then? Tried to lie? You’ve barely gotten your head out of the clouds and you’re ready to start lying and hiding things?” 

Feathers rustled and the hand stroking over his ribs stilled. “It must be the company I keep.”  A pause then, quieter. “We could have eased him into things. Approached him differently, over time maybe.”

“We don’t have time for that. How long do you think it will be before They decide to come looking for us? Where do you think the first place They’ll look will be?” The tail around his thigh tightened; he frowned and whined sleepily. The hand on his side started moving again and someone hummed soothingly against his ear, the air smelled faintly of smoke and pine. 

“He didn’t look at you and throw up.” The hurt under those words was so thick Jean could almost feel it on his skin . 

“Are your feelings hurt? How cute.” There was a shifting and one of the hands on him vanished. A soft rustling and a quiet exhale; he felt like they were tighter against him, closer to each other. “Marco-” 

“Don’t.” A long moment of silent stillness. “There’s...we’re with Jean now. There’s no reason for that.” 

“No?”

“No. We shouldn’t-” The words were swallowed by a tired sigh. “We need to focus on the situation. We have to take care of this. Him.”

“Are you saying we should wake him up for this? Do you think he’d like to watch? I always liked watching.” 

A hazy image drifted through Jean’s sleep fogged mind. He’d spent many a night in the dark, hidden under his covers and stifling his noises behind bitten lips, thinking about what they would look like together. Golden light against shadow, claws and feathers, sweet bell like gasps and raspy moans twining together. 

“You can’t fix this with your terrible seduction attempts.” 

“Worked on you before.” An amused drawl. 

“Do you ever take anything seriously?” 

“You think I don’t know this is serious,  _ angel _ ?” The demon’s voice deepened and gained a hard threatening edge. “You’re as bound to me as Jean is and I take having my toys broken very seriously.” 

“I am not your toy.” Marco hissed. The warmth against his back was gone suddenly and felt unhappy for the lack of it. He heard footsteps, heavy and echoing, hurry away rapidly. 

There was nothing after that except fingers threading through his hair and quiet humming and, eventually, a deeper darkness that swallowed everything else up.  

His last clear thought was that this was a very strange dream to be having. No one else had even gotten naked. 

\---

Jean woke up with someone else in his bed, practically molded against his body. His head was pillowed against hot bare skin, there was a heartbeat thumping right under his ear, and his leg was across the other man’s body, bringing him rather intimately into contact with rough fabric. A hand was pressed against the small of his back.

It was hot, really hot, his mouth was desert dry and tasted like stale beer, and he was really really naked. And practically glued to some guy’s side. 

“You’re awake?” 

Oh. Right. The world had decided to go crazy on him last night.

He supposed it would have been too much to hope that he would have woken up alone with the night before having been a dream. But on the upside he felt less like he was falling apart or was being physically crushed and more like he could think clearly. 

Or maybe he was just too tired to freak out anymore because, sleep be damned, he felt like he could easily stay curled against No-name’s side and just stay there indefinitely. 

May very well have done just that if the hand on his back hadn’t swept down and brushed over the top of his ass, reminding him that he wasn’t wearing anything.

He pushed away from the demon he’d been sprawled all over and scrambled back so he was sitting down at the foot of his bed, yanking the sheet that had been tossed over him up to cover himself as he went. 

“Where did my clothes go?”

No-name’s eyebrows went up. “Why? It’s nothing I haven’t see before.” 

Jean sputtered then glared. “That isn’t the point!” 

The demon tilted his head to the side, hair sweeping over his forehead. The room was dim, the lights were off and the blinds were drawn so only a few weak beams of sunlight managed to struggle through, and no-name’s eye seemed to literally glow in the shadows. He smiled widely then licked along the bottom pair of needle sharp teeth; it reminded Jean of a hungry predator about to gobble up it’s prey. 

Which might not have been inaccurate considering who he was dealing with. 

“What is the point, Jean?” No-name asked. There was a lot of suggestion crammed into just five words; Jean’s throat tightened. He looked away, gaze darting towards his closet door. 

“Whatever. Just...go somewhere so I can get dressed.”

No-name snorted then, inhumanly fast, snaked a hand out to grab Jean’s ankle. He dragged him back across the bed with a strength that shouldn’t have been surprising, he knew that No-name and Marco were both stronger than any human could be, but was. He yelped and tried to yank free or kick out but only succeeded in unbalancing himself and ending up on his back with the sheet just barely covering his crotch. 

No-name chuckled, deep and harsh, as he put a hand in the middle of his chest to keep him pinned then lowered his face so only a few inches separated them. 

“Am I not allowed to see you anymore? I suppose I shouldn’t touch either?” Jean’s gaze dropped down, unbidden, to the demon’s mouth as his tongue swept over red lips tauntingly. “Shouldn’t taste you?” 

Jesus fucking-

The way the demon was looking at him, lips tilted into an infuriatingly knowing smirk, managed to be as annoying as it was hot. 

“It’s been almost five years.” Jean pushed the words out through clenched teeth. “If you two think you can just show back up and mpph!”

No-name’s smile widened as he spoke, which really should have been a tip off that he wasn’t listening, and then he was closing the gap between them. It was like Jean remembered, lips full and warm and fitting against his own easily, tasting like smoke and ash in his mouth, but also very different. Not hard or demanding, just a touch of tongue between the crease of his lips, not even a hint of teeth; careful and questioning. 

There was fire against his lips and rushing into him, burning his protest to nothing on the tip of his tongue. His fingers curled against the demon’s skin, nails catching and scratching, and fire fanned out, filling his lungs, rushing through his blood, pooling in his stomach. It was like the first time they’d kissed but so much more; he felt like he might be reduced to nothing but cinders under the demon’s touch. 

The kiss broke and he gasped dazedly. No-name peered down at him through the curtain of his hair then leaned back in to press another kiss to the corner of his mouth. He was tempted, very tempted, to fall into it and even ask for more. He pressed closer, lips parting when they were licked over, and it felt good and right and he had missed this. There was a fluttering in his chest, an excited rush he’d been missing. He was an eager clumsy teenage again, unsure of where it was okay to touch-what had the demon liked most, where had he wanted Jean’s hands most- and head swimming.

He was coming alive like he only had during those perfect bright summers, and it was if no time had gone by. Except it had. A lot of time and this was all screwed up but wasn’t he entitled to pretend at least a little? 

Teeth touched his bottom lip, nibbled gently then drew it between No-name’s lips. The demon sucked and bit lightly, smiling against Jean’s mouth, before licking back into his mouth. A hand found its way between his legs then stroked over him through the sheet, dragging the cool smooth fabric over heated flesh. His hips pressed up, seeking more than just the whisper of a touch, but there was only the maddening barely there touch of fingertips through the sheet. 

He groaned impatiently and the demon laughed before nipping his top lip sharply. No-name switched his focus to mouth along his jaw, teeth grazing light, and then to drop wet sucking kisses along his throat and collarbone. 

Jean was fairly certain he was going to be sporting bruises but couldn’t bring himself to care about anything but the hot mouth on him and the maddening light touch on his cock. 

No-name’s tongue rasped over his nipple then teeth caught it, tugging hard enough to hurt in just the right way. He gasped, body jerking, and barely registered the sheet being tugged away until the demon’s hand closed around him, rough skin on skin, and pumped him firmly. 

How long had it been since someone other than himself had touched him? A year? Not since he’d broken up with Reiner and yeah that had been almost eleven months ago and fuck his entire life because he really didn’t want to come from just a few touches. 

He wasn’t fourteen anymore and

“Fuck!” No-name had made his way lower while he’d been willing himself to not do anything embarrassing and was licking a wide stripe up the his cock, tongue toying over the vein there. He lapped over then sucked at the head, the flat of his tongue right over the slit. Jean reached for him again, brushing over silken hair then touching one of No-name’s horns. They were ridged, narrowing with each band, and smooth to the touch; he rubbed where horn met scalp and was rewarded with a breathy moan. The sound spiked something in him, a satisfied feeling that mixed with the tension already building in his gut. He moved his hand back over the horn itself, fingering the dips and bulges, then returned to drag his thumb around the base again.

No-name pulled off of him, trails of saliva dripping from his mouth, and reached up to grab his hand and force him to push harder at where his horn met his skin.

“Like this. Use your nails.” 

Jean nodded enthusiastically because how could he not? That single russet eye, blown wide and pupil narrowed to a tiny pinprick of black, held his gaze as swollen lips stretched wide to sink back over him. His mouth was hot and wet and he took Jean in to the hilt, throat tight around the head of his cock. He swallowed and Jean’s fingers dug into his scalp as his eyes slammed shut. 

The encouraging noise the demon made vibrated through him.

No-name sucked around him, drooling obscenely as he bobbed on his dick. He seemed to remember exactly what to do to make Jean a twitching drooling wreck and hummed happily as he did it. Teeth grazed in the most sensitive spots, the flat of his tongue curled around him and dragged just right, and his fingers cupped and rolled his balls. 

He thrashed, heels digging into the bed as his other hand wrapped around the horn he wasn’t already touching. The demon grunted then swallowed again as fingers crept back to rub a tight circle behind his balls. Lights danced on the back of his eyelids.

He shouted, tugging the demon closer as he thrust up when his orgasm crashed down on him. He cracked his eyes open, an apology ready, but if No-name minded the rough treatment it didn’t show: he noisily slurped his way off of his cock, throat working as he swallowed Jean’s release. He let Jean’s cock slip from his sloppy wet lips then made a show of using his tongue to catch the cum that had escaped his lips. 

His hands fell weakly away from the demon’s horns to rest on the bed. No name licked his lips again then moved so he was still between Jean’s legs, sitting back on his calves, knees spread as wide as he could manage. Long fingers dipped into his pants, already undone and hanging low on his hips. There was a wet patch on the jeans and, when he tugged his cock free, it was flushed dark with blood and the tip was shiny with precum. 

He jerked himself off with fast strokes, hips rolling forward. A flush had settled over his face, making his freckles stand out that much more, and his mouth dropped open as his eye slid shut and his head tipped back. The muscles in his stomach and arms flexed and shifted under sweat slicked skin as he rutted into his hand. 

His stomach twisted and his dick throbbed near painfully; it was way too soon for him to get hard again but his body seemed like it wanted to try anyway. It was literally out of his wet dreams, something he’d shamefully drawn under the shaking beam of his flashlight, and if he hadn’t already been lightheaded and dry mouthed this would have done it. 

The demon came with a silent grimace and a full body shiver. His cum was hot and thick where it shot over Jean’s thigh and hip, a filthy brand on his skin. 

No-name shimmied out of his pants a moment later, dropping them onto the floor, then flopped down next to Jean. Kisses were pressed to his lips, slick and bitter tasting, but Jean was entirely too blissed out to care about that or the fact he had demon jizz drying on him. He even endured No-name swiping his fingers through the mess then rubbing it into his skin.

If nothing else he remembered that sleeping with demons and angels meant putting up with weird and occasionally gross shit.

Eventually he started to feel disgusting and itchy. He pushed No-name away, rolling his eyes at the demons sleepy snickering, and forced his weak knees to carry him out of the bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom. 

“Jean?”

His name being called and the sound of heavy footsteps coming towards made him look up just as Marco stepped into the hallway from the living room. His dark brown curls were flattened on one side of his head, the pattern from the couch quilt pressed into the skin of his face, and he’d found a pair of Jean’s sweatpants that were pulled almost laughably tight over his thighs. His wings were a little out of sorts, some feathers out of place. 

It was adorable. 

Or. Jean’s eyes lingered over the bare chest and just how snug the sweatpants were in some places. Not all that adorable. 

Marco gave him a once over then, eyes narrowing, stalked closer. Jean spared a nervous thought for how he must look and if there was any sort of excuse that would justify it beyond ‘demon sex’ but then Marco was in his space, making him tilt his head to the side, and touching his neck.

“It looks like he tried to eat you.” 

Jean blinked. “I don’t know if you’re making a joke or not.” 

Marco’s expression said that no, he wasn’t trying to be funny. He put a hand on Jean’s shoulder, frowning mulishly, and shoved him back over the threshold of the bathroom. The angel nudged the door shut with his foot and kept pushing Jean until he was backed up against the sink with Marco crowded against him. He squawked a protest when hands curled around his waist and picked him up to set him on the edge of the sink. His legs were pressed apart to make room for the angel to slide between them.

“Um.” Jean said. Marco quirked an eyebrow at him as fingers ran along the insiders of his thighs. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to, uh...get it up again.” 

Marco’s smile was alarmingly far from angelic. 

\---

As it turned out Jean had in fact misjudged his own stamina and Marco had been well within his rights to look smug. In the shower, pressed face first against the wall with hot water beating down on him and Marco’s fingers curved inside of him while the angel sucked bruises on the back of his neck, Jean didn’t have any trouble getting hard again. 

Marco mouthed at the the spot behind his ear that made his legs feel like they were made of jell-o, then whispered hotly into his ear. 

“Can I-?” The angel’s erection was hard and heavy against him, sliding silkily against the curve of his ass.  

He nodded, fingers scraping ineffectively over the wall. “Y-yeah.” 

He should probably say no. He should have said no when Marco hauled him into the shower and cleaned him up while rendering him breathless and woozy with wet plying kisses and nimble fingers. Should have said no to the demon who was...doing whatever it was he was doing now. 

But he hadn’t done any of that and it seemed pretty silly to start waffling now. He was very dedicated to finishing the things he’d started.

He was flipped around so his back was pressed against the tile wall. He was picked up (again. They were going to have to talk about this manhandling. Later.) and pushed up the wall until he had no choice but to wrap his legs around Marco because he couldn’t keep his feet on the floor anymore. 

One of Marco’s hands squeezed his ass then gripped it, blunt nails digging into the muscle. Jean moaned, head falling back against the wall. 

Oh right, he remembered now. He’d sort of been a huge slut for this, all too happy to be passed between them over and over. 

That would be the thing that stayed the same. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: More porn (...seriously, there is so much porn planned for this fic. Porn and feels and porn and humor and actual plot [I swear it's a thing] and then more porn. Just...putting that out there.)
> 
> Demon/Dark Marco is getting a name next chapter, I swear. It was in this chapter but then he decided he'd rather suck Jean's dick and...I mean. That seemed more important.


End file.
